


Shark

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: "I was thinking Sansa was a mascot wearing a shark costume", "I was thinking Sharknado when I read the summary", "IS THIS LIKE THE LITTLE MERMAID BUT WEIRD?", "Is Sandor a fisherman?", "WTF is Sassy doing?!?", "for a hot second I actually thought Sansa was going to be literally a shark", Cause they are hilarious, F/M, I'm just kidding!, Imma just keep putting comments into the tags, There is no fish sex!, fish sex, my sisters are cracking me up, “She's the prettiest shark in the world.”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: It’s Shark Week and all the citizens of Kings Landing are on the edge of their seats, hoping that someone will finally track down the fearsome great white known to the locals as the Hound.  Sansa ‘Little Bird’ Stark has been training for this event for…Kidding!Sansa is a pool shark.Happy Birthday mademoiselle_k and Zip001!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I don't know which one of you is the good twin and which is the evil twin but I wish you a happy day all the same!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mademoiselle_k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mademoiselle_k/gifts), [Zip001](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zip001/gifts).



* * *

None of the chairs matched each other.  None of the barstools spun, not anymore.  Whatever part of the walls that wasn’t covered with wood paneling was covered with grimy posters for bands long since folded, and a light flickered in the doorway giving it a seedy, dysfunctional look.  The whole place had a layer of fog hanging over it though no smoking was allowed.  

And underneath it all, a shark was lurking.

She’d been futilely knocking balls around for only ten minutes when a group of frat boys descended on her and now she was racking in anticipation of their first game, examining each ball and assigning it a place.

“Are you putting them in _numerical_ order?” Frat Boy Number 1 shouted; the girl looked surprised.   

“Am I not supposed to?”

They laughed at her then but she didn’t get mad; she never did, just shrugged and took a seat while Frat Boy Number 2 broke.   

The first game would be a disaster, and she’d smile and blush and ask all manner of stupid questions, and the men- it was always men- would patiently explain and coach and answer but in the end she would lose.  

The second game would be even worse and she’d sigh and pout and complain that she would _never be any good at this_ , and her marks would assure her that she just needed to practice though they were more than happy to sink the eight ball and claim the victory.

By the third game someone would suggest that they play for something, and since this was a crappy bar with crappy pool players the only thing anyone could ever think to play for was who bought drinks.  Once that was decided the girl would break and the third game would start.   

And that’s when her luck would come in.

It always looked like luck, of course.  She still sent balls spinning haphazardly all over the table, but sometimes there would be just enough of the right kind of contact for one to drop into the pocket.  It just wasn’t necessarily the one she was _aiming_ for.   

Sometimes she’d reach for the bridge… reconsider… then take it down again before sashaying to her position and missing yet another shot.  Because she still missed plenty of shots- she always made sure her marks had a fighting chance to win, they just never did.

Sometimes after the third game she’d play another, then another, but the outcome never changed.  As long as they were playing for drinks, she won.  

This night was no different.

“Whatcha want, like a… White Zinfandel or something?” the loser asked as they approached the counter.  Something about it must have displeased her- either the presumption of her drink or the fact that he claimed the only stool- because her nose wrinkled, lip curled up then snapped into a smile when the guy turned and looked at her.

“Rum and Coke, please,” she said politely.

Frat Boy didn’t stay, just paid for the drinks then excused himself, dropping his beer off with his friends and heading towards the lavatory.  And since she was alone, Sandor figured it was a good time to make his move. Why not?  It was his place, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.  So he leaned in real close to the girl in a way that he knew from experience would intimidate even the most hardened man, and said what he’d been itching to say for weeks now:  

“We don’t like sharks around here.”

If she was intimidated, though, she didn’t show it.  Didn’t even flinch, not really, it was more like a… pause… before her expression became overly-innocent and she cocked her head at him.  

“Sharks?”

“Pool sharks,” he clarified, more out of reflex than any belief that she actually _needed_ clarification.  “Hustlers?  Liars?  People who use deception to cheat other people out of their money?”

She pulled a lock of hair over her shoulder, played with the ends while she thought through his words.

“Sorry,” she shook her head. “I don’t follow.”

Oh she was _good,_ not just at pool but at playing the fool, but before he could laugh at her the naivete broke into a genuine but mischievous smile, just as she spun away.  

She was back for another rum and Coke before the evening was over.

================

The place was a dump, really, with two tables just a shade past their prime side-by-side near the bar.  He used to charge for the privilege of using them but ultimately decided what little money came in wasn’t worth the hassle.   

Most nights he ran in the red since few men and fewer women would call it their regular haunt.  Weekends, though… on weekends all manner of people would come in, from working-class schlubs to dudes just out for a beer and everything in between.  Not a lot of people for sure, but enough to turn a profit.  Enough to make him happy.

Until lately, when the shark showed up.

“Well then _why_ are there numbers on them?”

Laughter (just like always) and blushing (just like always) and some loser patiently showing her how to properly rack the balls.  Just like always.  Two marks tonight- one with blonde hair, the other with brown, both with the confident, wolfish look of men who thought this was going somewhere.  

Sandor didn’t watch.  Or at least, he tried not to.  There was nothing to watch anyway since all three of them were ‘so bad’ at pool that it took ages to finish one game; would have put him to sleep if he’d tried though at least the girl’s body English was entertaining.  Eventually- finally- the third game was over and the three of them headed towards the bar.

“A drink for my lucky companion,” Brownie announced.   _Moron._

“Sure thing,” Sandor grumbled.  “What’ll you have.”

“Seven and Seven, please.”

There were tricks girls used around the table to flirt with a man- like asking for help lining up a shot so he’d have to put his hands on her, or bending over real low so he could get an eyeful of either her ass or her tits- but Sandor hadn’t noticed any of that from her.  It wasn’t her scene, wasn’t what she was about.  Didn’t stop the blonde from pressing his luck, though, didn’t stop him from leaning in to talk to her, touching her hand, touching her hair.  She kept leaning away…

“Wanna play again, Sansa?  Same bet?”

“Well… okay," she said and flipped her hair.  "Go ahead and set it up while I finish my drink.”

Sandor wiped condensation from the counter and tried, like usual, to not look at the girl- _Sansa-_ though she seemed to be looking pretty hard at him.  Must have been imagining it; she usually didn’t pay him much mind. Then again... she didn’t usually linger at the bar, either, didn’t usually talk to him.  

“It’s not for money, you know.”  Definitely talking to him.

“What’s that?”

“I play for drinks is all.  So it’s nothing to get growly about.”

Growly?

“Sorry,” he deadpanned.  “I don’t follow.”

That pause again, just shy of a flinch, and a slow sly grin that touched her eyes; then she was off the stool and off to the table and off to work her mark.

Two more drinks that night, both from the blonde.  He still hadn’t noticed any flirting.

=======================

“Water, please.”

It was early in the evening and she hadn’t found a mark yet, so she was having the only drink that came close to being considered her ‘usual.’  She only ever drank water unless someone else was buying.  Which also meant she never tipped.  

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

She smiled at him- a big, wide, _genuine_ smile, like she was surprised he was talking to her and not unhappy about it.

“Tired of what?”

“Deceiving people.”

The smile cracked and fell.  For a moment she just stared at him, trying to get a bead on him, to see if he was serious, then her eyes narrowed into furious little slits.

“It’s not like I’m hurting anyone,” she hissed hotly.

“Uh-huh.”

“Everybody walks away happy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I never said there was a problem,” he grumbled.  Stiff.  Rude.  “I asked if you ever get tired of it.”

“Not yet.  You got any more questions you want to growl at me?”

Again with the growling.

Truth was, he hadn’t really expected her to argue with him, just as he hadn’t really expected to agree with her.  Cause she was right- everybody was happy, nobody regretted it- but fuck if he would ever actually tell her that, especially since so far she had yet to break eye-contact, blue eyes flicking between his grey but never looking away.  

So he rested both arms on the counter, leaned in real close, and _growled_ a question at her, the question he’d been wondering at ever since she showed up.

“Aren’t there other bars you’d rather go to?”

She blinked… softened… and looked away.    

“I like it here.  Quiet.  Uncrowded.  Tables could use re-felting but I never have to wait for one.  It’s comfortable.”  She ran a finger around the rim of her glass.  “You want me to stop coming in?”

Every single word that slipped out of her mouth was unexpected, especially the bit at the end.  Not his fault, then, that he temporarily lost his mind and responded with-

“I never said that.”

It was a lame-ass answer to a lame-ass question.  So he didn’t know what in hell she was smiling about.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Body English- where a player tries to influence the path of a ball or puck by moving his body in a particular direction.


	2. Chapter 2

The cue was left propped against the side of the table and when she turned her back on it it slid, the unmistakable sound of wood scraping against wood followed by a loud clatter when it hit the floor. 

“Oops!” the girl gasped.  Everyone laughed.  Sandor rolled his eyes.

Three marks tonight, young-ish and handsome-ish and no doubt hoping she’d go home with one of them though the truth was he never saw her go home with anyone.  And by now her routine was set in stone- find a mark, lose two games, win the rest, go home alone.  There was an odd measure of comfort in knowing that though he probably should have told her a long time ago to fuck off, probably should have hated her. 

 _Didn’t_ hate her.  Wasn’t sure why. 

Maybe it was because the whole thing was its own source of entertainment, trying to guess which idiot would fall for the scam.  Or maybe it was an appreciation for the care she took in crafting her con, like how she chalked her cue before every shot- every single time, sometimes twice. 

Or maybe it was because she wasn’t fooling _him_ .  He’d seen the truth right from the start and if other people were too dumb to see what was right in front of them then how was that anyone else’s fault but their own? 

Fourth game done and she was at the bar for her second drink.  One of the trio paid, snapping cash out of his wallet in a way that let everyone know he wasn’t happy about it.  Sore loser.  Dick didn’t say a word to her after he paid, either, just turned and walked back to his friends leaving Sansa entirely alone.

Not that Sandor minded.  She was a different girl when no one else was around. 

“Do you ever lose when you don’t want to?”  

“Not since I was a kid.”

“You’re still a kid.”

She cocked her head; raised a brow. 

“And you served me alcohol?” she drawled in challenge, downing the rest of her vodka tonic to emphasize her point.  “For shame.  Someone should call the cops.”

“Go ahead.”

“And who should I tell them is serving alcohol to minors?”

There was a hum in her voice, a buzzy _something_ that sent a tremor from his brain to his gut and lower when he realized she was asking for his name.

“Sandor.”

“Alright, Sandor.”  She waggled a finger at him.  “You’d better behave.”

He huffed.  “I could say the same to you.”

“I always behave,” she countered, eyes wide and bottom lip sticking out just a little- just enough- to make her look perfectly innocent.  A literal angel, sitting there at the bar.

“How disappointing,” he said, slow and low and just for her; her only response was a sly grin.

And then she was gone, done for the night after only two drinks, and the dreaded smile he’d been fighting since their first little debate crept across his face.  Fortunately she was no longer there to notice, couldn’t see his scars stretch and twist in a way that could never be anything but ugly; what made that fortunate, though, he wasn't sure.

* * *

 

“Hi.”

Her back stiffened, surprised by the greeting, but when she turned and laid eyes on a nicely-dressed man about her age she smiled as if she was pleased with what she saw.  And hell, maybe she _was._

“Hi.”  

“I’m Mark,” the man said.   _Oh the irony._

“Sansa.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Sansa?”

“Oh, I’m not really here for drinks.” She flipped her hair with a practiced hand.  “I’m here to hopefully improve my pool playing.”

Mark’s eyes lit up.  “I can help you with that.”

“Yeah?  Okay.  Why don’t you rack or whatever you call it and I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing.”

Mark the mark had scarcely left when Sandor rested his arms on the counter and gave her a reproachful look.

_“‘Rack or whatever you call it?’”_

_Shhhhh…._ she mouthed, finger pressed across her lips while she fought back laughter.   

“You could have just let him buy you a drink if that’s all you’re after.”

“If he buys me a drink he thinks I owe him,” she said with a roll of her eyes, like she couldn’t believe she had to explain this to his dumb ass.  “When I win, _he_ owes _me_.”

“Splitting hairs, isn’t it?”

“If you’ve never had to split that particular hair then you wouldn’t understand.”

That was probably true.  And it made sense, then, why she’d rather hustle for drinks instead of just accepting them with obvious strings attached, why she wore those big sweaters like a fortress, why she played at being dumb.

The balls were racked _or whatever you call it_ and the guy was watching her in a way that seemed like he already thought she owed him something but Sansa hadn’t made a move to join him.  

“Mark’s waiting.”

She sighed, slid off her stool, and went to work.

These little moments were happening more and more often, moments when she was genuine and open and not pretending anything.  He was usually the one to bring them to an end, and she usually left with an air of reluctance, but it was easier to keep her at a distance, easier just to keep an eye on her, to watch out for her.  That's all he was doing, really, when she bent low to take a shot and the hem of her sweater drifted up to highlight a truly incredible ass that he didn't even try not to ogle.  

She must have been able to feel his eyes on her.  Why else would she look over her shoulder at him like that?

* * *

 

He wondered about her, sometimes.  Wondered at the freshly-washed wholesomeness of a girl who looked like she’d gotten lost on her way to bible study.  Wondered what was under those oversized sweaters she favored, and what her legs would feel like wrapped around his waist.  Wondered if she’d like having that long hair pulled, and if she would gasp his name or shout it when she came. 

And he wondered what she was thinking when she lingered at the bar, and why she’d started talking to him like they were allies.   

“We had a table in our garage,” she told him, unprompted, swirling the ice cubes in her glass of water.  “Played all the time while I was growing up since mom and dad had a thing about TV.  Summers I’d work on my tricks.  It’s so easy now I have to make it a game.”

“It’s always a game,” he rasped back, not understanding.

“No, I mean… it’s a game I play with myself.  To spend as little as possible.”

“Is that why you only ever ask for water?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And why you never tip?”

Her laughter was bright and sudden- natural- and her eyes held a devilish amount of heat when she tilted her head back, touched her chest, and slipped a hand below the neckline of her sweater to retrieve a neatly-folded five dollar bill.

“You’re breaking the bank, Sandor,” she hummed, holding it up for him between two delicate fingers and for a moment he just stared.  He’d seen those fingers curled around the shaft of a cue stick- seen her stroke in a way that made him think her _talented_ grasp was wasted on pool- and there they were holding up cash still warm from her body. 

Sandor huffed... reached out... and unceremoniously plucked the bill from her fingers.

“Table’s available.”

A twist of her lips and a heavy sigh as she headed to the empty table, and he wondered what it would be like to play a game with Sansa of the long legs and the long hair and the long looks in his direction.


	3. Chapter 3

Pool had always held a sort of beauty to him, even in the dull haze of his bar, but she made it look elegant too- delicate hands propping up the cue, cream against green, and her strokes were all finesse when she wasn’t on the lemonade.  Clearly an A.  Pity he was the only one who recognized it.

He’d seen her run the table only once- some prick who loudly taunted her and couldn’t keep his hands to himself.  So after he’d broke dry she’d cleared the table- bank shots, back cuts, massé... no combos, though, almost like she was intentionally drawing it out.  It was enough to make it perfectly clear that she _could_ run it any time she wanted to.  She just _didn’t._

“I’m not trying to piss anyone off,” she explained when he asked her about it, sipping at her water. “I just want them to buy my drinks.”

“And the guy you _did_ piss off?”

“He was an asshole.”

She said it so easily, so quickly, he laughed before he could stop himself and she laughed with him, took a dainty sip of her water though she never stopped smiling, eyes never left his. She seemed different tonight. Warmer.

“Looks like an easy mark,” he rasped, nodding towards the door; she dropped her drink and followed his eyes to the entrance where a loud group of young men had just come in.  

“Yeah…” she sighed and vacated her stool.  “Thanks.” 

If he didn’t know better he’d say she was disappointed.

* * *

 

She’d look good sprawled across one of those tables, auburn hair pooling around her head and blue eyes watching him, arching up under him while he explored her body. A kiss behind her knee. A lick inside her thigh. Hips lifting, begging for a touch of his tongue. She’d lay there like the sweet little angel she was, let him tease and taste however he pleased just as long as no one else was around. Or hell, maybe she’d let him even if people _were_ around. Maybe she’d be into that kinda thing. He sure as fuck wouldn’t say no.   

Her mark tonight was a much older, red-nosed drunkard in wrinkled slacks and a trench coat he’d forgotten to take off.  Gross, but probably not really drunk, only acting like it so he could stumble into her, hang on for support. Sansa was starting to get irritated; Sandor was starting to see red.

“Wanna play again?” the man slurred.

 _No,_ Sandor answered for her.   _No, no, no, fuck no._

“Oh, I don't know…” she drawled, then flipped her hair.  “Maybe one more.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, took a bitter swipe at the counter with his bar towel while the guy tottled off to rack and get ready.  

“Don’t you ever _worry?”_ he muttered, angrier than he had any right to be and certain she’d call him on his ‘growling’ but she only squinted at him, confused.

“About losing?”

“About one of your marks pressing his luck.”

“Oh.”  She swirled her drink.  “No. I don’t.”

Had she lost her damn mind? How could she not worry about Mr Handsy thinking he was gonna get some? Sandor glared over her head towards the table she’d be playing at, her mark trying to put balls in the triangle but consistently missing, then lumbering around to retrieve them... only to miss again. Maybe he really _was_ drunk.

“Do _you_ ever worry?” Sansa asked, drawing his attention.

“About what?”

“About one of my marks pressing his luck.”

He should have said no.  He _wanted_ to say no.  Instead, when he opened his mouth he said-

“All the time.”

-sounding just as lost and stupid as the idiots who bought her drinks.  Hell, he hadn’t even had the sense to _growl_ it at her.  What was he _thinking?_

He couldn’t look at her when she slid from her barstool, couldn’t even watch her walk away.  Because the truth was he already knew exactly what he was thinking.

He wanted her.  And not just for the obvious reason, either, but because he _saw_ her in a way that no one else did.  No one recognized the playful, smart woman underneath the squeaky-clean exterior because she didn’t _show_ anyone else that part of her.  Only him.  All anyone else saw was what she allowed them to see, which was admittedly not very much in the clothes she wore.  Still, he could tell that her body was long, very very slender but curvy in the right places, tits not quite a handful but plenty nice, he’d gladly grab hold if ever she allowed it.

 _If ever she allowed it,_ he grumbled to himself while the girl in question kissed the 8 and claimed the win.   _Yeah right._

* * *

 

The place was a ghost town- literally no customers- and he was half-heartedly drying glasses when the bell over the front door rang and the girl strolled in… and stopped short when she laid eyes on his empty establishment. 

What the fuck was she doing there in the middle of the week?  The odds of finding a mark on a random _Tuesday_ were slim to none and if she had any sense at all she’d turn right around and go home.  Instead she looked to her left… to her right… then sighed and went to a table without a single word of greeting.

The next thirty minutes were spent in silence save for the sounds of balls clacking together and the occasional swell of obscure rock songs from outdated speakers. Without anyone there to hustle her play became breezy, efficient, though she still missed a few shots that he expected her to make. Not that he was watching.  She just happened to be in his line of sight was all, and there was almost nothing else to look at than her long hair, long arms, long legs… fuck, where’d she find jeans that fit like that?  And how hard would it be to peel them off of her?

“I’m bored,” she announced, wandering up to the bar and dropping her elbow on the counter, her chin into her hand.  “Is it always this dead on Tuesdays?”

“Does that surprise you?” 

He slid a glass of icy water in front of her and watched as she took another long, slow look around the place.  Sighed.  Slumped. 

“I guess not.”

Poor kid.  She really did seem bored. 

“Come on,” he grumbled, stepping out from behind the bar. “I’m not doing anything anyway.”

She racked, because she liked to rack, slender fingers deftly dropping balls into place, not in numerical order but in a flurry of color she seemed not to have to think about.

He broke, potting the nine and claiming solids. Three easy shots followed, but when he was down to something trickier he miscalculated just a bit and the 13 bounced in the corner, effectively blocking the pocket.  At least he’d left her with shit to work with.

In the end, though, it didn’t matter, cause she sunk balls like it was nothing, putting little thought into every shot but dropping them anyway.  It was more impressive than he would have liked to admit, almost a disappointment when she finally made a mistake and he was up again. 

“You need practice,” she teased; he glared in her direction then glared at the table. 

Nothing was working out for him- if it wasn’t easy then he couldn’t get it in, could only manage to drop two more balls before ceding control then watched in silence as she closed it out.

She was even better the second game and almost… _almost…_ didn’t even give him a chance, just kept potting shot after shot with no thought at all to where she was leaving the cue ball. 

“You’re free stroking,” he complained; she smirked at him.

“So?”

Cocky little show-off kept doing it, too.  So he _should_ have rubbed it in when she missed the 9 and left him with an easy shot.  Good thing he didn’t; he dropped the 2 then missed the 7, heading right back to his stool again with a few cuss words muttered not-quite under his breath.

Not that he truly minded.  Watching her was more fun than playing, anyway, especially with how she lightly traced her fingertips against the wood as she sauntered around the table, bit her lip while she was thinking, bent over to look down the line… he could _almost_ make out the shape of her tits- bigger than he’d thought- and he could _almost_ imagine himself behind her, unbuttoning her shirt and slipping off those jeans...

“I like playing with you,” she hummed after potting the 8, oblivious to his lewd thoughts.  “I don’t have to pretend to suck.”

If she expected some sort of response to that she didn’t show it, just lazily retrieved balls and sent them towards the foot while he sat there, wondering what other things she might be willing to suck.

“Care to make it interesting?” she asked and set another ball rolling across the green.

“Interesting how?”

She sighed. Tapped a finger to her chin. Considered.

“If I win... I get free drinks for a month.”

“You get your drinks free anyway.”

“I do.  But I want them from _you.”_

There was something about the way she said it- brow lifted in challenge and lips pursed around the word- that made it impossible to refuse.

“I could be amenable to that.”

“And what are you playing for?” she asked, a touch of a swagger in her step as she rounded the table and finally stood in front of him, met his eyes with a look like she was confident she’d never have to pay up but still curious what he’d ask for. 

Silly girl. There was only one thing he wanted.

“If I win… you go home with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter, it will all work out in the end, I promise!
> 
> "on the lemonade"- handling the cue in a way that makes it seem you don't know HOW to handle the cue  
> "free stroking"- all offense, no defense; taking shots with no consideration of where you leave the cue ball because you don't think you'll ever miss, and even if you do miss you don't think your opponent will make the shot anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my Noodle Sisters (jillypups, sarahcakes613, paperflowercrowns/bex-xo, vanilla-lu), who listened to me whine about this fic for far too long. Your support means the world! Thanks Jillypups for previewing this chapter and for letting me vent, your sympathetic ear helped more than you know.
> 
> Thanks to MadK and Zip for being such wonderful, positive influences.
> 
> And thanks to everyone for reading! Hope you had fun with it!

To her credit, she didn’t flinch-- then again she never did-- only met his eyes with a steely glare a few shades shy of irritated.   

“I wouldn’t owe you anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m just saying- if by some miracle you actually won and I went home with you, it wouldn’t guarantee _anything.”_

“I know,” he assured her, and held out his hand, palm up.  “Is it a deal?”

Uneasy eyes searched him, fluttering all over while she bit at her lip but he would not look away.  After a moment of what could only be called _very serious consideration_ she lifted her chin, slipped her tiny hand over his, and shook on it, squeezed tight just as a smirk crept across her face.

“It’s not like you can beat me anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Please,” she scoffed and flipped that long hair over her shoulder.  “I just creamed you two games in a….”

She paused-- mid-sentence, mouth open-- then yanked her hand away.  It had been a while since he’d made her angry and he’d honestly been looking forward to this moment, when the penny dropped and the fire in her eyes flared and grew with the realization that she had just been outmaneuvered.  

“Rack ‘em, loser,” she snapped.

 _Now_ who was growly?

 _“You_ rack ‘em,” he shot back.  “Loser breaks, remember?”

Oh boy, she was _pissed_.  It was all he could do to keep from laughing at her when she stomped around the table and started thunking balls into place, mouth twisted and nose wrinkled up… it was hilarious.  After she was done slinging the rack around and making an unnecessary amount of clacking noises she removed the triangle and slunk off to mope on a barstool.  

“Don’t mess up,” she taunted him.

“You really think I can’t play?” he asked, putting as much derision in his tone as he could muster- as much _threat_ as he could muster- then leaned over, pulled back his cue, looked down the line...

And broke dry like a complete fucking loser.

Sansa snorted, a low squeaky sound that was irritatingly cute.  

“You jinxed me,” he complained.

“Or maybe you can’t play near as well as you think you can,” she countered, teasing him the same way he’d teased her.  

But the teasing was gone when she slid off her stool and approached the table, all her little hip-swinging antics yielding to pure efficiency, intently focused on every shot.  And fuck did she take a lot of shots-- his own fault, really, since he’d left her a damn road map to work off-- and balls were pocketed left and right with rapid-fire precision.  In no time flat she’d cleared the stripes and was down to just the 8, inconveniently protected by a ring of solids; there was no way she could make it.  At least, that’s what he told himself.   

“You could shoot for nothing,” he suggested.   

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Yes, actually, he would.  Because he wanted to win.

The shot she took was a difficult one, bouncing off the rail and rolling between two solids to reach her target, but ultimately the 8 never even came close to a hole.  It was a clever shot, really, and could have worked if she’d just cut the angle a little more to the right.  

Not that it mattered.  It was his turn now, and he wanted to win.

“6 ball,” he announced and tapped the hole he’d be be aiming for; Sansa sulked adorably when the ball rolled into the pocket.  

“2 ball, corner.”

Well she could pout all she wanted to, it wouldn’t change the outcome; the power was in his hands now, and he wanted to win.  

“4 ball, side.”

It wasn’t even about the bet, not really.  He’d already had his fun by messing with her, by laying bare the _‘I want you’_ and if for some reason she actually paid up and went home with him he’d do right by her, wouldn’t even _try_ to get more.  

“1, side.”

Cause she was right, it wasn’t a guarantee of anything, and he’d give her whatever she wanted instead of the other way around, even if it was making tea or watching sitcoms or whatever crap it was she liked to do.

“5 and 7, one in each corner.”

He wanted to win just for the pleasure of winning.  No one ever beat her, she said so herself.  More than anything he wanted to be her first.  Or better yet…

“3, side.”

… her one and only.

He wanted to win.  He did.  

So standing there, staring down a cue ball touching the overhang and an 8 ball snug against the opposite short rail... he knew he’d fucked up, should have left himself a better lie.  It would take just the right touch to drop this one- a little tricky but not impossible.  He drew out the angles, came up with a plan, and took his shot.   

They watched in silence as the cue ball bounced against the side rail then rolled slowly towards the 8, gently clipped the side of it and sent it towards the intended pocket with perfect execution.  Or _nearly_ perfect.  As luck would have it there wasn’t enough power in the shot, and instead of dropping into the hole it stopped just a few millimeters short, the useless cue ball rolling up behind it.  

“Fuck,” he grumbled and glared at the pathetically easy shot he’d left her.  

Sansa huffed a laugh.  Took a breath.  Huffed another one.    

“That’s an _awfully_ big pocket,” she drawled, deep and sultry, as if he didn’t already know that, as if he needed her to tell him, needed that spark in her eyes, needed that not-exactly-smug-but-definitely-happy smile.  

“Fuck!” he said again, louder and _growlier_ , and waved at the table in disgust.  “Go on, then.  Free drinks for a month was it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, licked her lips and pressed them together like she was fighting a smile and he realized, then, that he’d misjudged _everything_ , misunderstood her laughs and her smiles and her glances.  He was a mark to her, nothing more and nothing less.  It would explain why she was so fucking pleased about him missing, why all of _her_ shots had been so focused.

So maybe it was a good thing he lost.

Her playfulness was back when she sauntered to the table, showed him a little half-smile out of the side of her mouth, lined up the winning shot... and jumped the cue ball over the 8 and into the corner pocket.  

Sandor stared, uncomprehending.  Blinked.  Shook his head.  

“You look confused,” Sansa laughed again but lighter this time, like they were sharing a joke.   

He _was_ confused. Because… there was only one ball left... and it was the wrong ball. He won. No, he didn’t win… _she lost._ And she did it on purpose. She _chose_ to let him win, she wanted him to win, and she wanted him to know it. Cheeky little thing-- assertive, even-- though the way she was avoiding his eyes didn’t really seem so cheeky at the moment.  

“It doesn’t guarantee _anything,”_ she said firmly, hands on her hips and trying so hard to look confident but only looking nervous.

“I know.”

She took a deep breath and let it all out, shoulders slumping in relief.   

“Okay,” she nodded, took her cue to the rack on the wall and placed it with the others, then looked at him over her shoulder.  

“You ready to go?”

=======================

It was better than he ever thought it would be when she tumbled out of his imagination and into his bed, trading the green of a table for the blue of his sheets.

At first, when he kissed her, he thought she’d push him away, was certain he’d misread everything but still tried anyway.  But the hands she placed on his chest worked the buttons of his shirt, clawing it off his shoulders to reach the skin underneath and she kissed him till his lips hurt and still needed more. Her legs went around his waist when he carried her to his room, grinding hard into him, and by the time he dropped her on his bed her shirt was gone too.

The jeans, as it turned out, were easier to get off than he originally assumed, and she let him slide them over her hips and leave her utterly bare, flushed pink all over and not shy about her body, not shy about looking at his.  

He wasn’t sure what to think of that.  It was novel enough to be with a woman who was sober, much less one that kept her eyes open.  But the _hunger_ in her expression when he pulled off his clothes was toeing the edge of fantasy, as was the way her legs parted when he climbed over her, making clear where she wanted him, _what_ she wanted of him. And hell, he wanted it, too.  

But.    

There would never be enough time to fully appreciate her, to do all the things he wanted to her, and if he only got one shot at this then he was gonna slow it the fuck down. For his own sake, and hopefully hers as well.   

Goosebumps lifted under his callused hand as he explored her body, every bit of her velvety-smooth and so very _tiny._ So many delicate details and he wanted to mark them all, to write his name across her pale skin so everyone would know that one time she was his.  

He didn't dare mark her-- didn’t want to hurt her-- only kissed her shoulder, hair like cool silk against his cheek when he nipped at her earlobe, her neck and collarbones, ignoring his own arousal best he could though her hand was between his legs, tugging, and that pretty mouth was begging, _Sandor please…_

_Not yet._

Instead he focused on the softness of her breast, the way the skin puckered when he ran a knuckle over it, and how she moaned and arched under him when he sucked a pink nipple into his mouth, pressed it briefly between tongue and teeth but not enough to hurt.  

Her hands were in his hair, urging him on as he went lower, dragged a bite over ribs and hipbones, held her slender thighs open so he could kiss between them, thrilled at the whimper he could draw out of her with just the touch of his tongue.  She was soft as satin there, and so _hot,_ and she jumped when he licked the full length of her, curled a finger inside.  So hot, and so _close,_ he had to hold her down while he continued to taste her, sucked at her throbbing skin, teased her flush while she writhed under him, right on the edge of...

“Wait… _wait…”_ she tapped on his head, abruptly pushing him away and sitting up with a hand between her legs like she was in pain.  Or disappointed.  

His temper _flared..._ he sat back, putting some needed distance between them

“Not _yet,_ ” she clarified, and crawled after him, into his lap, hand against the back of his neck to whisper in his ear.  “I want you in me.”

Oh.  

“Next time you’ll come in my mouth,” he threatened her, meaning every word of it though the way she was kissing his neck seemed like she wasn’t really listening, only pushed against his shoulder till he was on his back. Her eyes were busy exploring him, fingers raking through the hair on his chest and stomach and lower when she finally slid down his body and took him into her mouth.

She gave as good as she got.  Actually... with her on her knees between his open legs he’d say she gave even _better_ than she got, and there was no way this was gonna last much longer.  It couldn’t.   _He_ couldn’t. Not looking down at her, never so aware of his size as he was with her delicate little fingers wrapped around him, stroking him, lips dragging obscenely against his skin….

“Fuck, Sansa,” he groaned, tugging at her hair just enough to make her stop and look up at him- mouth open and hovering- and that was even _worse_.  “Take it easy on me, will ya?”

“I _am,”_ she smirked and licked him balls to tip, eyes dancing as she traced her little tongue around his slit and he would have called her a liar if he could talk at all.  As it was he just let her continue on as she pleased while he rummaged around his nightstand drawer and tried to start breathing again.

He’d scarcely found what he was looking for when she plucked the foil wrapper from his hand.

“Let me.”

He did-- gladly-- though to be perfectly honest it was less sensual and more _torturous_ , watching her cock her head and bite her lip, intently focused on the task while she fumbled through the motions.  Not to mention he could have done it much faster.  Though she _did_ seem pretty proud of herself when she finally got it rolled into place, straddled his hips and held him with one hand, sliding the tip back and forth across her entrance.

Her descent was necessarily cautious, and hesitation flickered briefly in her dark eyes though she never looked away.  Plenty wet, though, and willing, and he watched himself disappear into her warmth, flesh parting around him as she carefully rocked her hips, sinking slightly with every little push till there were no empty spaces left.  For the both of them, really.  

For several agonizing heartbeats nothing happened.  Then she took a deep breath.  Showed him a thin smile.  Grabbed his hands and kissed them.  And slowly, tentatively, she began to move, hips churning in lilting little movements that grew progressively more sure.  

She still hadn’t looked away from him, but _his_ eyes couldn’t stop moving, wanting to see everything- the legs stretched over his hips, the place where they were connected, the breasts bouncing when she finally found a rhythm she liked.  His hands couldn’t stop moving, either, wanting to feel _all_ of her now they were joined, palming her curves and teensy waist, sliding up to squeeze and play with her nipples.  

There was no way this was gonna last much longer though he would very much like to go on forever, and he was starting to doubt his ability to give her what she wanted.  So it was no small relief when her movements became erratic, harder, and he knew what it meant, slid one hand down to where they merged together and only _just_ dragged a thumb through the hair there when she started to shudder.

She didn’t say his name at all when she came, just dropped her head back and _sighed_ , long body stretched out while those hips rolled, rolled, rolled against him, slower and harder and finally trembling to a dead stop. Hell, it didn’t even seem like she was breathing anymore, silent as she was.  All he could do was wait.  

 _“Oh...”_ she gasped, pleasure curling in her tone.  “Oh my god.”

Everything about her seemed entirely sated, almost limp, and for a moment he thought it was over, that she’d run the table and left him dry.  And maybe he’d be totally okay with that.  But then her head wobbled forward and she met his eyes, startling him with the depth of heat still lingering there.  

“Oh my god,” she said again, then tapped him weakly on the chest.  “Come back.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” he protested but sat up anyway, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as gently as he was able and it was only then that she started moving again, _thank fucking god_.  

It was different then-- less wild but just as intense-- but also different from any way he was used to.  It wasn’t just her that made it that way, either; it was something about the two of them.  Something in how he could just close his eyes and _feel_ the way they sort of blended together, couldn't tell where his own skin ended and her heat began and didn’t really care to figure it out.  

“Did you ever think about me?” she asked between kisses; he couldn’t think of anything but the truth.

“Constantly.”

It was an idiotic response, uttered mindlessly, but why bother hiding it _now_ from this woman who was warm and affectionate and so very wet for him.  Who was completely sober and still kept her eyes open.  Who kissed him- hard- and smiled when he kissed hard back.

“I thought about you, too,” she murmured, breathless against his mouth, and he couldn’t think anymore, couldn't _last_ anymore, just grabbed onto her hips and showed her all the ways he’d thought of her, gave her everything he had left.  

Later-- much much later, maybe-- he might regret his answer, might sift through the meaning of hers.  But at that moment, panting and helpless while she brushed her lips against his, kissed his cheek, his ear, down his neck after he fell back onto the mattress… he couldn’t make himself care.   

She whimpered a protest when he moved her so he could go to the restroom then draped herself over him again when he returned, pinning him with a body that seemed to suddenly be missing all of its bones, head tucked under his chin like she’d made a little nest and was determined to stay.

 _This must be what it’s like to have a cat,_ he mused, let his hands stroke down her back and up again, kissed the top of her sleepy head while she nuzzled closer.  She was almost heavy this way, and so warm, and he wouldn’t dare move her unless his life depended on it.  And even then he just might die instead.

“Your stomach is _growling_ at me,” she purred, propping her chin up on a hand.  “Wanna get something to eat?”

Not really- he’d just gotten comfortable- but he agreed anyway and soon they were up and casually pulling their clothes back on, as if they’d done this hundreds of times before, as if this was totally natural for them.  And it was _easy_ , and it was _nice,_ and he shouldn’t be worrying about anything else, shouldn’t be _thinking_ about anything else.  But he was.  

He thought about earlier when she slipped into the empty bar wearing a button-up shirt and shoes that came off easily.  Thought about her knocking balls around, missing shots he expected her to make, complaining she was bored.  Thought about her winning those two games, then suggesting a wager.

Thought about how _everyone_ had a tell when they gambled.  Maybe even sharks.  

“What were you doing there on a Tuesday, anyway?” he asked bluntly, not even trying to play coy because he wanted to see her reaction.

“Oh… just in the area, I guess,” she waved a hand.  Flipped her hair.  

 _Everyone_ had a tell.

“You _hustled_ me?”

 _“You_ hustled _me,”_ she corrected him, completely unbothered by the accusation.

“But you knew I would try.”

“I didn’t _know._  I just made sure you _could.”_

Sandor shook his head, trying to rattle the bits of information into place, trying to make sense of it.

“Were you always gonna lose?”

“Not sure.”  She shrugged, nonchalant.  “Never thought I’d have to lose _twice.”_

She raised her brow when she said it, waited for him to understand, _dared_ him to understand the thing he’d always known:  she could run the table any time she wanted to; she just hadn’t wanted to.    

The evening replayed like a movie in his mind but with a new eye for every move she’d made, every word she’d said, and it dawned on him:  if he wanted to feel bad for trying to hustle her into his bed- and he _didn’t_ feel bad, not really- then there was no point, cause she’d wanted him to do it.  

He wasn’t really sure how to feel about that.

“You didn’t have to make it a game.”

She flinched-- for real this time-- and the playful expression was replaced by something deadly serious.   

“I was nervous.”

That was... unexpected.  

“About what?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned.  “I just… wasn’t sure if you even liked me.”

“You _weren’t sure?_ ” he echoed then started to laugh, because the very idea that he maybe didn’t like her was absurd. Of course he liked her!  And okay yeah, he didn’t exactly show it the way some other guy might show it, but to him it had always seemed like his feelings for her were embarrassingly obvious.  And she wasn’t _sure?_   

“When did you figure it out?” he asked, expecting her to cite one of the filthy things he’d only recently done do her, but his amusement evaporated when she responded with-

“When you intentionally missed the 8 ball.”

Sandor opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Opened it again.

“How did you know?”

She didn’t answer, just gave him a _don’t-be-stupid_ look that was somehow affectionate and he knew what it meant- if anyone could miss a shot and make it look like an accident it was _her._ So she’d missed on purpose, after _he’d_ missed on purpose, though he hadn’t acted like it but she knew it anyway, but she’d also missed the 8 before that when she could have taken it, probably because she knew he’d intentionally fucked up the break, just like she knew he’d hustle her because she hustled him into hustling her just like he’d always wanted to and fuck if he could even say who hustled who at that point.  Or if it even mattered.  

“I don’t want you hustling me anymore.”

“I _won’t,”_ she said, meaning it.  “I promise.”

They slipped into not-quite-awkward silence, just two lost people who liked each other, who’d just fucked each other, standing there with not one clue as to what they should do next.  

“I can still come in, though, right?” she asked, brows scrunched together; something in him damn near _melted_ at the vulnerability of her tone.

“Yes, you can still come in,” he told her, curled his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans and pulled her close.  

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded; dropped a kiss on her waiting lips.  “Things don’t have to change if you don’t want them to.”

Long arms went up and around him when she kissed him back, smiled against his mouth in a way that made him forget all about his growling stomach, only wanted to take her back to bed.  He meant every word of it, too- she could play this however she wanted.  Things didn’t _have_ to change at the bar if she didn’t want them to.  

And things _didn’t_ change at the bar, not really.  The chairs still didn’t match each other; the barstools still didn’t spin.  The walls were still covered with wood paneling and grimy posters, and a light still flickered in the doorway.  The whole place still looked foggy though there was still no smoking allowed.  It was much the same as it had always been.  

Except that it wasn’t.

Because now the pool tables held the memory of being thoroughly defiled on more than one occasion.  Now there were guileless blue eyes and games played just for fun between two people who knew better.  Now there were five-dollar tips on glasses of water, and alcoholic beverages served on the house to someone who was definitely not a minor.  

And now, underneath it all, a shark was no longer lurking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Break dry- not dropping any balls on the break  
> Road map- balls are in easy positions, so easy it’s as if the shots are all mapped out  
> Shoot for nothing- when you know you can’t make a shot so you don’t even try, instead try to leave a terrible lie for your opponent  
> Big pocket- the easier a shot, the ‘bigger’ the pocket seems


End file.
